I hate to admit this, ABers, there are times
When I wonder where
I think about nothing else but eating AB "birdie" chicken,
I utterly forget about you, my honour and my frazzled hair,
Waiting for the lemon sauce to thicken
A lemon in between my lips pips and peels, hard to bear
Where are dem blasted birdies, but for the crispy skin on my chicken?
I wandered out one rainy day
And heard a Mooney bird with merry joys
A white shyte on my foot, ne'er half the way;
I wondered "That's one shot, for the boys",